Groups of boys took to ogling her as she walked frenetically from class to class. Her heart ached; and that puzzled her. She thought of her father in the garden, and of her aunt with her Patience, as she had seen them—how many ages was it ago? Just one day intervened. Ann Veronica was not aware of this literary side of her teacher; she had a little tinge of annoyance at Miss Garvice’s advantage. How she learned of her heritage I do not know, but you need not imagine that it is greed that drives her. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. “John! Welcome! Happy Thanksgiving!” Cathy cried, ushering him deeper into the house. The day is already half over. She pulled her hand away quickly.
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